Deconstructing Death
by Emmyjean
Summary: If Molly Hooper were a case, Sherlock Holmes would have just come to the disturbing realization that there was a possibility that his incomplete research had led to a wrongful conviction. Left alone in Molly's flat, Sherlock's exploration and the discoveries he makes challenge his previously held notions and assumptions about the woman who helped him cheat death.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Deconstructing Death

Author: Emmyjean

Rating: T

Summary: Sherlock Holmes sees the finest and most obscure details on every case he works, but there are always things he misses. As his own life is put on hiatus, he is left with only Molly Hooper's life to investigate and finds himself increasingly astonished by his discoveries regarding the life of the woman who helped him cheat death.

Author's Note: The general idea behind this fic was inspired by the old film noir "Laura", in which a detective investigating a woman's death finds himself falling in love with her just by going through her things and learning more and more about her and her life. I have always thought the concept was very romantic. My first Sherlolly, and my first fanfiction after a LONG hiatus. Finally found a ship that makes me want to get at them keys again and type away!

* * *

Sherlock Holmes sat on Molly Hooper's sofa, silently contemplating the past couple of days. Molly, for her part, was sitting on a chair, absently picking at a pillow and trying to look at anything but him. He could practically feel the discomfort radiating from her, but wasn't ready to make an effort to ease the tension.

He had to think first.

The day before, he'd jumped off the rooftop of St. Bart's and 'died'. Molly had come through and had done everything they'd planned without missing a detail or hesitating at all. Afterwards, with nowhere else to go, he slipped back to her flat with her where they then proceeded to avoid conversation all evening, both of them emotionally drained. Sherlock himself didn't know whether he should feel relieved or hollow now that the deed was done and everything seemed to have been pulled off successfully...he imagined Molly felt similarly.

He was awake all of the previous night replaying the look on John's face as Sherlock had said what everyone believed to be his final goodbyes to the world, and to John in particular. The actual jump from the roof was a very mild traumatic experience compared to having to deliberately break your only friend's heart.

No, he amended silently to himself, glancing at the woman sitting not five feet from him, chewing her thumbnail to bits. That wasn't something he could say anymore. 'His only friend'.

He had more than one, it seemed.

She left early for work the next morning, determined to put on a 'brave' show for everyone while also making sure nothing slipped through the cracks that she would need to obfuscate after the fact. He'd spent the day lost inside his mind as the adrenaline that had propelled him waned and he could finally process what he had done, and what he needed to do next. Molly had returned from the hospital to find him in more or less the same spot she'd left him, only now he was sitting up. Here they were, half an hour later, and they still hadn't spoken two words to each other.

He glanced at her again, her eyes red-rimmed as she stared at the floor. He wondered what the cause of the redness was...had she been crying, pretending to mourn him as she went about her business despite the whispers and sniggers that had surely dogged her today? Had she slept as badly as he had the night before? Perhaps a combination of both. He didn't know.

All Sherlock knew was that he owed Molly Hooper his life. His friends owed her their lives as well. Somewhere in the most repressed part of his social consciousness, he knew that he had to somehow express not only the gratitude that he felt, but the gratitude that the others didn't know they were supposed to be showing her.

The problem was that he had no idea how to do this.

Not only was he not exactly in his element in situations that required tact and humility, but he was also coming to the disturbing realization that he might not actually have any idea who Molly Hooper really was, and it made him hesitant to interact with her. He felt he was on unfamiliar terrain, and he hated that feeling.

He knew the superficial things. He had thought he'd garnered enough of that information to make fairly accurate assumptions about her personality and how her mind worked. Over the past couple of days, she had proceeded to take his assumptions and tear them to shreds, starting with a single frank, brave and unpretentious conversation that she'd initiated.

_Are you okay? And don't just say you are, because I know what that means, looking sad when you think no one can see you._

He hadn't expected it. He hadn't realized she could be so keenly perceptive. Even John hadn't really noticed his agitation and somehow she _had_, just by observing.

"Should I make some tea?"

Her soft voice cut through the silence so suddenly that she might as well have screamed. He looked at her then. She had leaned forward in her chair, her palms rubbing her knees absently as she continued trying to avoid looking at him. For some reason, it bothered him.

Sighing, he asked, "Got anything stronger than tea?"

She finally glanced up at him, a bit surprised. Standing quickly, as though she were simply glad to have something to occupy herself with, she padded over to her kitchen and grabbed a bottle and two tumblers out of a cabinet. Coming back to sit down, she set about filling each glass with a generous pour of what turned out to be Red Brest.

He raised an eyebrow, astonished . "Whiskey?"

She shrugged and said, "It's all I've got in."

Sherlock took the glass, watching almost raptly as she swirled the liquid in her glass and took a healthy gulp. She raised her eyes to his, and he blinked before taking a sip of his own. It was good whiskey. He appreciated the burn that traveled down his throat and the warmth as it settled comfortably in his stomach. They sat in silence for another few minutes, both of them finishing their drinks inordinately quickly, before she finally spoke again.

"Are you hungry?"

"No," he answered bluntly, and then added, "You?"

"Not really."

"I will take some more of that, though," he said resignedly, holding out his glass. He rarely drank, but tonight he felt that he – that they had both – needed it. She didn't smile as she refilled his glass, and then her own.

They didn't talk much. No sharing of childhood stories or funny anecdotes or whatever it was that people normally did when they were drinking together. It was a way, he supposed, that they could avoid speaking about the people they knew who they were currently causing to suffer with this charade. They would both no doubt feel guilt wash over them in thinking about them - the broken-hearted few who were crying their tears for the late Sherlock Holmes tonight.

He knew on some level, they _should_ be thinking about those people - but he, at least, couldn't bring himself to dwell on it. Dwelling on it wouldn't help them. He needed his mind to be sharp and anyway, he _despised_ sentiment. Molly seemed to understand all this without needing it explicitly stated because she didn't make any feeble attempts at conversation. She just sat there, her eyes hazy as the alcohol tempered her usual awkwardness, content to simply be company for him without expectation. She was calm and serene.

Again, it occurred to him that this was a Molly Hooper to whom he had never been introduced.

"Well," she said, draining her glass and running a palm across her forehead, "I have to work tomorrow. I should really have gone to bed hours ago."

He nodded absently and twirled his glass in his hands, a bit of whiskey still left in there. She stood up and started to walk out of the room, then stopped and turned back. "You'll be alright in here?"

Sherlock looked up at her and found her staring softly at him, her gaze tinged with concern. Surprisingly, it didn't annoy him as much as it normally would.

"Yes. I'm fine."

"I'm sorry my sofa is so..."

He waited, watching her with uncharacteristic patience as she searched for a word. Finally, she exhaled and concluded with,

"...wonky."

His eyes widened and, before he could censor himself, let out an equally uncharacteristic chortle. It seemed to surprise her, and she smiled back a bit wanly.

"Goodnight," she said softly.

He didn't reply, but instead simply watched her as she retreated into her bedroom and closed her door. After sitting for a good while, he stood and found himself idly scanning Molly's flat. On the surface, everything seemed in line with what he'd always assumed about her – the décor, the furniture, the cat.

Then something had caught his eye...a photograph. He'd walked over and picked it up, and found himself thoroughly confused by what he was looking at.

It was a picture of a man and a teenaged girl. The man had a weathered face and some horribly old-fashioned mutton chop sideburns, and the girl boasted a head of fiery ginger hair. At first he'd thought he didn't recognize them, but then something in the girl's eyes looked familiar...all of a sudden, it dawned on him that the girl was Molly. He stood there for a long time, staring at the picture and trying to reconcile her familiar brown eyes with that startling mane of hair. Eventually he set it down and retreated back to the sofa to think, knowing he wouldn't get much sleep.

He never did manage much sleep when he was presented with a riddle.

People don't develop new personalities overnight, which only left one possibility. That was that even with all the skill he possessed, he had somehow missed things - large and small - about Molly Hooper over the years he'd known her.

He hated it when he missed things.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: As you'll see, I like a slow build. :) Thanks for reading and/or reviewing!

* * *

Sherlock hadn't intended to start snooping.

On some level, he knew it was wrong. He knew that it was not how he should be repaying the generosity of Molly Hooper, who had just put her job and her reputation on the line to try and help him save his own. It was also beneath him...he was a detective. He _investigated_, he did not snoop. Still, he knew better than anyone how he became when under the influence of crushing boredom, and he could feel it creeping up on him as he had sat on her sofa watching crap afternoon telly.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, some vestiges of conscience were telling him that this was a gross invasion of her privacy. However, the part of his brain that desired immediate gratification – which was dominant – heaped justifications on what he was doing. He spoke them aloud, as though Molly herself were standing there condemning him.

"If I get bored I'll be impossible to live with, so in the end, this is me being kinder to you. Besides, you know who and what I am, and you still left me alone in here. You must have assumed I would be having a look, so really this is more _your_ choice than anything."

Glancing surreptitiously at the photograph of Molly and her father (because it _was_ her father, obviously, not a great leap in logic there), he placed himself solidly in the corner of the dominant, self-gratifying part of his brain, accepted the justifications and proceeded to start rooting through Molly's flat. He didn't know what he was looking for...perhaps nothing. He didn't have a goal in mind, and if there were anything else to do at the moment, if he could leave and occupy himself with anything else, he would have jumped at the chance.

But there wasn't, and he couldn't.

He tried to go the less invasive route at first, proving to himself that he wasn't totally lacking in grace. He started scanning her books. He'd learned long ago that you could tell more about a person by their collection of books than you could in the span of several actual conversations with them. He'd been very aware of this when he'd first moved into Baker Street with John and had hidden away any of his books that he felt were too revealing or overly telling. He knew that Molly wouldn't ever think to do this - arranging her bookshelves to tell her preferred version of her life story and interests. Not only would it seem silly, seeing as how she had lived by herself until he'd come crashing into her personal space, but she was too honest for that kind of ruse. There was plenty to see – one entire wall of her sitting room was nothing more than a huge bookcase. The shelves surrounded and dwarfed the telly that was in the center, and Sherlock found it slightly amusing and somehow fitting to Molly that she would fill most of those shelves with books rather than DVDs.

Beyond that, as he began to go deeper, he was actually surprised to find himself...surprised. Although recent events had certainly boosted his general opinion of Molly's character to a new level, he had assumed that he'd at least formed a solid grasp of her personality and interests over the years.

Perhaps not, he thought as he frowned at the first book he'd slid off the shelf.

_How to Make Love Like a Porn Star _by Jenna Jameson_._

"I didn't...expect that from you," he murmured, again aloud, as his brow creased in confusion.

The sudden rush of unease he'd felt at the title lessened a bit as he opened it up and garnered that it was not actually an instruction manual, but rather an autobiography. It was, in fact, one of many that lined her shelves – which, annoyingly, were not in any conceivable order. He perused them all, some predicable, some totally off the wall.

_The Fountainhead_ by Ayn Rand. _Washington, a Life _by Ron Chernow. _My Wicked, Wicked Ways_ by Errol Flynn. _Lennon, the Definitive Biography_ by Ray Coleman.

Several biographies of Marie Curie.

"Only one of these is worth reading...why would you read three separate biographies about the same person? Nobody's that interesting."

Then there was the fiction. She was apparently a large fan of mysteries. Sherlock allowed himself a little indulgent reflection on whether her association with him may have inspired this love of mystery novels. Then again, it could be the other way around...her perpetual willingness to aid him in his work may stem from her fascination with detective stories. He shook himself out of this train of thought and moved on.

There were various classics by Dickens, Bradbury, Twain and the Brontes. _My Antonia_, _The Age of Innocence_, _Anna Karenina_, _Journey to the Center of the Earth_, _A Passage to India_, _Beloved_. Shockingly, no romance novels, unless one counted the several Jane Austen novels in that category.

Her bookshelf didn't read like a schoolgirl's list, however – there was plenty of variety, and all the books were obviously read and not just put there for show. Modern fiction, plus plenty of comedy mixed in. Comedy was something which Sherlock had no frame of reference with which to appreciate or analyze...it wasn't his area at all, so he pretty much brushed over those titles.

All of the Harry Potter books, their covers ragged and dirty, Sherlock observed with a smirk.

"I'll wager you were lined up at midnight to get these, just to add insult to injury...although I really hope you weren't wearing a ridiculous costume and waving a wand."

There were science journals, travel books, true crime, books on psychology, interior design and various retrospectives. Some art books which looked like they were probably gifted to her but which she did not display on her coffee table in a show of pretentiousness as some would do. Books of crossword puzzles and other brain teasers, all filled out nearly completely. Old textbooks. Reference books. Several books on yoga. A well-worn Bible, plus several books on world religions, which didn't necessarily surprise him...including a few on Wicca and the occult, which decidedly _did_.

"God help you, Molly Hooper, if I find a voodoo doll stashed around here somewhere with curly hair and wearing a suit."

He stepped away from the shelves. Molly was extremely well-read, and there were more facets to her bookshelf alone than he would have ever anticipated. He didn't know what he had expected when he'd started this...he hadn't had any expectation at all, in truth. At the back of his mind, though, he supposed he imagined nothing beyond a wall full of books on pathology, romance novels and...

Sherlock actually felt himself redden a bit as he realized how claustrophobic the box was into which he'd placed Molly Hooper. _Confined_ her, really, would be a better term. Something as simple as perusing her collection of reading material had caused the box to burst. It was forcing him to find some other, more expansive place in his mind palace in which to store the information he had collected about Molly Hooper and who exactly she was.

Realizing he was still holding the volume he'd removed from the shelf, Sherlock put it carefully back in its place and let his eyes travel once more over the wall of Molly's books.

"I've been lazy."

He had to admit it. He hadn't done his due diligence before making his final deduction about her, and every single one that had come after that had been done simply to confirm his theories instead of challenge them. If she were a case, he would have just come to the disarming and disturbing realization that there was a real possibility that his incomplete research had led to a wrongful conviction.

It bothered him more than he cared to express, even to himself.

* * *

Hours later, he was sitting on the floor by the coffee table, completely absorbed with one of her books. This one had specifically caught his eye amidst all the others, and he'd now been scrutinizing it for what seemed like the entire afternoon.

Sherlock stopped to consider that it wasn't, strictly speaking, a book. It was a scrapbook, a photo album.

It was a collection of memories and moments from the life of the woman upon whose hospitality he was now encroaching, the woman who today had managed to pique his interest even further than she already had without actually being present. Molly Hooper, whom he'd known for years, but whose newly-discovered private life had made it feel like he'd only just met her for the first time.

He stared, captivated, as he turned the pages and found more and more tidbits that only served to increase his curiosity.

There were ticket stubs from various concerts or films that she seemed to deem worthy of remembering. Theater program covers, some of them really rather old. Menus and receipts.

Photographs as well. Sherlock found himself most intrigued by these. They would pop up every few pages or so, as though reminding him with a strong visual exactly whose life experiences he was paging through.

Molly standing with a group of young men and women at a campsite, obviously taken years before...she still had her ginger hair. Family members or friends? Were these people still in her life? There were yellow leaves on the ground and everyone was wearing down jackets. The others held beers, Molly held a large can of what looked like iced tea. Perhaps she had driven them there, perhaps she was simply more responsible than the rest. Perhaps it was spiked.

A collage of postcards covered the next few pages – obviously from the gap year adventures of various friends.

Another photograph. Molly with her hair chopped short, posing with an older man. A mentor, perhaps? It looked as though they were at some kind of professional dinner...they were wearing nametags. The man's name was Wilson, apparently.

In spite of himself, Sherlock soon found himself bypassing the pages that did not have photos on them, searching for more images.

Molly with a group of girlfriends, her eyes squeezed closed and her face lit up with laughter. Her clothes form-fitting and slightly fancy, her makeup done and everyone wearing a matching pink feather boa. A bachelorette party.

Molly pulling a face, wearing bunny ears and crossing her eyes.

"I don't have a deduction for that one, I'm afraid," he admitted to the Molly in the photograph, the corner of his mouth turning up slightly in a small, unbidden smile.

He had to flip through about ten pages before getting to the next photo - Molly with a man, their arms wrapped around each other. Perhaps a boyfriend. Perhaps a brother. Did she _have_ a brother? Sherlock was almost ashamed to admit he had no idea.

Molly posing in front of a large snowman with a little girl in a pink coat. Molly was wearing a pink coat too, with a silver scarf and earmuffs. Her nose and cheeks were red.

Before he could get further, he heard the sound of footsteps coming down the hallway and quickly shoved the album back where it belonged. Standing, he could hear her keys jingling on the other side of the door and quickly strode over to open it for her. She looked up, surprised.

"Oh...thanks," she said, lugging grocery bags past him and into the flat as he shut the door behind her, "I have too many keys on that ring. I keep meaning to get rid of the old ones, but you know how it is. Plus, I could use them to bludgeon someone if I ever got attacked in an alley."

That brought a slight smile to his lips but he said nothing as he followed her into the kitchen, watching as she set the bags on the counter and started to unload them and continued rambling. He wondered if she was doing it out of nervousness at having him there or just because, like him, she'd passed the day without much in the way of conversation.

"I got a few things...well, nothing terribly interesting, but I realized while I was eating lunch today that you probably need more than the random fruits and loaf of raisin bread in my fridge."

Sherlock remained silent, still simply watching her. She didn't seem to notice as she started putting things away in the cupboards.

"I got some things for sandwiches, and then there are some beans, some milk, sardines - which you may hate, but I love them – and I got some stuff I can cook us for tea this week."

Finally she turned around and faced him, then stilled.

"What?"

Dozens of old photographs flew through his mind as he looked at her now, and it felt as though he was looking at her through a kaleidoscope. Still, his face was impassive as he replied, "Nothing. Thinking."

"Oh. Okay," she said quietly and a tad uncertainly, then moved to sit on a stool across the small island from him. Running her hand through her hair, she asked, "Listen...do you mind if we just get a takeaway tonight? I'm not really feeling up to cooking, actually. Long day."

He shook his head. "I'm not particularly hungry. Long day?"

"Chinese then?"

"Fine. Why was it a long day?"

She paused to glance at him as she pulled out the takeaway menus. Flipping one open, she said, "Just a particularly long lineup of post-mortems."

"Anything interesting?" he asked with feigned nonchalance, although he was desperate to hear something interesting. He wished he could have gone there with her, worked in the lab on his experiments while she went about her business, like he used to do. He was taken aback at how much he found himself missing his routines...he hadn't realized he was so dependent on them.

She passed him the menu, which he took absently, and launched into a fully detailed and somewhat gory description of each corpse that came through her door that day and the challenges it presented to her. Anyone else might have found the conversation boring or even distasteful, but Sherlock hung on her every word, interjecting when he needed to with educated guesses and questions. Finally, after what ended up being a fairly lengthy talk, she grabbed the menu back from him.

"You haven't even looked at this."

"I told you, I'm not hungry."

She fingered the edges of the menu, frowning. Finally she replied, "At least get a starter."

He furrowed his brow at her and asked, "Why?"

"Just because," she said evasively.

He was about to bite out an annoyed reply, then decided he didn't want to expend the energy. Something about the way she gingerly folded and unfolded the menu, refusing to meet his eyes, soothed his irritation.

"Go ahead and get whatever you want. I'll have some of yours."

This brought her eyes up to meet his. "You really will?"

"Yes."

A small smile graced her lips as she pulled out her phone and dialed. He listened with an eyebrow raised as she ordered an amount of food that would probably have fed five people, much less the two of them. As she hung up, he asked drily,

"Are you expecting guests?"

Molly blushed slightly. "I just figured you - we - can have leftovers for lunch tomorrow."

With that, she walked away and into her room, presumably to change, leaving Sherlock staring after her, lost in his thoughts.

* * *

Sherlock spent the following week reading Molly Hooper's books. He started out with the ones whose subjects interested him, but soon found himself bored once again. He couldn't quite get a grip on the strange anxiousness that had plagued him since he spent the day scouring her personal library. Not wanting to spend a lot of brain power analyzing it, he now he sat in her overstuffed armchair, trying to lose himself in a book about Thomas Edison.

Thomas Edison had never interested him less.

After about a day of this futility, he finally strolled over to the bookshelf again and browsed the selection of books with new purpose. Reaching out, he finally selected one – _Good Omens_, by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. It's absolutely out of his comfort zone. Fiction, and comedy on top of that. Why he did it, he had no idea...he needed to scratch some itch involving her books, as though perusing the titles hadn't been enough and he wanted to actually delve into her literature selection to learn even more about the kind of reading material that would attract this new (to him) Molly Hooper.

God, he was going to lose his mind cooped up in this bloody flat, he thought grumpily as he plopped down in the chair and started to read.

A few hours later, he closed the finished book and was forced to admit to himself that he'd quite enjoyed it. It had been dark humor, which was more in line with his usual sense of humor, and smartly written. Standing up, he glanced at his watch and decided he still had time for one more before she got home from work.

"So, Molly Hooper," he murmured to himself as his eyes scanned the shelves once more, "What else do you have for me in here?"

He found another book that he thought might be interesting, but it was far inferior to the first in his opinion. Halfway through, he'd wanted to put it down and find something else to do, only realizing again that there wasn't really anything else for him _to_ do.

The entire day, in general, was depressing for him. He knew he would literally go mad sitting there, forcing himself to read and enjoy books that he had no real interest in picking up in the first place merely to stave off the fog of lethargy. Thinking about all of this only served to make him ill-tempered, but he had nothing else to think about for the moment, so it was a vicious circle.

He didn't go to meet her in the kitchen as he had done for the past several days. Making no comment on it, she went into the kitchen and started pulling things out of the cabinets as she got ready to cook something. He steadfastly continued his non-watching of the telly until she was done about forty-five minutes later.

"There's pasta here, if you want any," she called from the doorway.

"Not hungry," he said curtly. She stood there for a moment longer and then responded quietly,

"Okay. I'm just going to take mine into my room...I'm a bit tired today."

He didn't respond, and so she filled a bowl for herself and then put the rest of the meal away in the fridge. Shutting off the kitchen lights, she walked down the hall towards her room.

"Goodnight," she said, before going in and shutting the door behind her.

He didn't move for a long time, and he noticed that it was hours before the light in her bedroom went off. He could see it, shining out from underneath her door. Obviously hiding from him and his capricious moodiness. When he finally did notice her light go out, he sighed and leaned back on the sofa, scrubbing his face with both hands.

He was going to have to find a way to get himself through this more effectively. One way or another.


	3. Chapter 3

"I need you to pick up a couple of things for me."

She nearly spilled her coffee all over her white dressing gown. She'd been sneaking around the flat trying to get ready without waking him up, and he'd not made any indication that he was already awake until he'd called to her suddenly from the darkened sitting room.

"Christ, Sherlock...you scared me," she said breathlessly, her hand to her chest. He stood up and walked towards her, noticing that her hair was soaking wet and she was still in her pajamas.

"I need to be able to leave this flat if I'm ever going to get anything done," he said, disregarding her exclamation, "You need to get me a hat and coat. And some jeans."

Blinking, she repeated stupidly, "A coat?"

"Yes," he said dismissively, "I need to be able to blend in, and I can't go around wearing my own coat, it's too distinctive."

"Ah," she said, tucking her newspaper under one arm and shaking hot coffee off her hand, "Yes, I guess it is."

"I need these as soon as possible."

"Um, I don't see why not. But, should you even...I mean, is it a good idea to go outside? It's only been a couple of weeks..."

"Procrastinating won't make it less dangerous, Molly. Just get me the things I need so I can start," he paused, and then added as an afterthought, "Please."

Looking up at him and searching his face for a brief moment, she said, "Alright. That's fine. What size do you wear?"

He blinked at her. "What?"

"Your jeans. What size do you need? I'm rubbish at guessing."

He stared at her for a moment, then said a tad distastefully, "I don't really wear jeans."

"Well, what about your other trousers?"

"They're tailored. Custom, obviously."

"Okay," she said with a sigh, her eyes travelling from his waist to his ankles, "I suppose I'll have to guess, then."

She walked back into her room to finish drying her hair and getting dressed. She didn't say much else besides a brief goodbye as she left the flat. He could tell that she kept wanting to wish him a good day, but even she knew it would seem ludicrous, since he was currently a virtual prisoner in her home. After he heard her footsteps recede down the hallway, he got up and went to take a shower himself.

Standing under the hot water, he didn't make any move to scrub or wash up. He just remained still, eyes closed, enjoying the white noise that enveloped him as the shower ran, allowing him to momentarily tune out his brain. Inhaling deeply, his senses were gently caressed with an amalgam of steam, verbena, lime and soap...remnants of Molly's shower earlier. The heady scent was what snapped him out of his small reverie and had him getting on to actually showering. He had needed the shower, but standing in here and smelling her body wash felt somehow as though he was intruding on something _too_ private, even by his standards.

This wasn't to say he didn't have to use said body wash, seeing as how there was nothing else for him to use at the moment. Pouring it into his hands, he made swift use of it, quickly washed his hair and turned off the tap. As he toweled off, he considered that he should have had her grab him some toiletries as well, as long as she was procuring things for him.

"You also need larger towels. These may as well be hanging on your sink for drying hands," he complained to a not-present Molly, his voice reverberating off the bathroom tile.

For now, Sherlock simply dried off as best he could and combed his hair back away from his face because he also desperately needed a haircut. After getting dressed, he went out into the sitting room and looked around for something...anything. He couldn't face reading any more books, so he instead spent the first part of the day looking through her kitchen cupboards.

He'd found it interesting that she had gone shopping on the pretense that she didn't have anything in the house, and yet it had looked to Sherlock as though her cupboards were full when she'd pulled them all open to put things away.

As it turned out, she'd bought things for quick meals, but everything else that was in her kitchen spoke of a recreational but rather accomplished amateur chef.

In addition to the usual staples, he found a huge assortment of interesting things stashed away on her shelves – spices like sumac, Hawaiian sea salt and Herbs de Provence; a half dozen different types of olive oil; half-used bottles of extracts of all kinds; and a big bottle of expensive balsamic vinegar. In the lower cabinets he found her pots and pans – among them a wok, several Le Creuset pieces and a crepe pan.

"Well, Molly Hooper...this certainly isn't the kitchen of a woman who lives on microwave meals."

He eventually happened upon her stash of cookbooks. Various ethnic collections, some celebrity chefs, but most interesting of all was an old recipe book with an abundance of ancient-looking handwriting in it. Clearly it was given to her by some family member, he was guessing a grandmother. The most intriguing part about it, however, was that Molly had little notes stuck all over the place indicating what looked like page numbers. He couldn't make sense of it until he found another recipe book, this one newer and filled with Molly's own distinctive handwriting. It was then that he realized the page numbers in the old book corresponded to pages in the new one...instead of slavishly following the directions as most people did out of some sort of misplaced sentiment, she was actively trying to improve upon her old family recipes. In her book, she was making the same dishes but swapping ingredients, adding things, making notes on changes to the cooking time and even making suggestions about wine pairings.

Thumbing through the old collection, he took note of the recipes – a lot of stews, various types of pie and pasty. Coddle, colcannon and barmbrack were included in the pages, among others...interesting.

"It seems you have some Irish roots...not totally shocking, considering the natural state of your hair."

He supposed it wasn't a huge stretch of the imagination to picture Molly as an avid lover of cuisine, he just hadn't really ever thought about it before...which was an excuse that seemed to be repeating itself with alarming frequency lately.

He wondered what her favorite restaurants were.

"You'd probably enjoy Angelo's. Not too fancy, Italian, definitely decent. Good area."

Idly, he pulled open the fridge. There were the things she had bought for him to eat (which he appreciated but would probably not make much use of), plus the usual things. Eggs, bread, milk...Sherlock frowned, reaching in and pulling the milk out to read the label.

_Chocolate_ milk?

"Oh, for God's sake, Molly. Your kitchen was earning decent marks before this came up."

Pushing the carton back into the fridge with lingering disgust, he was then finished with the kitchen and looked around for something else.

Spotting a hall closet that he hadn't seen her open once since he'd been there, he toed the cat out of the way with his bare foot as he went towards it. Pulling it open, he could tell by the smell that she didn't go in there often...a slightly musty odor wafted around him as he reached up to pull the light cord.

The first thing he noticed was the collection of coats that hung from the hangers on one side. His brow creasing, he reached out and pushed them around.

"What in the world can one person possibly need with so many coats?"

Most of them were slightly vintage-looking – a denim jacket with shaggy, eccentric wool cuffs, hem and collar. A long patchwork fleece. A red trench coat, which was actually fairly smart. A short brown leather blazer. Sherlock paused as he spotted the pale pink peacoat that he'd seen her wearing in the picture from her album, the one with the snowman and the little girl.

Quickly shoving the thought of that damn album out of his mind, since he'd been actively fighting the impulse to pull it out and look at it again, he turned his attention from the coats to the boxes that lined the shelves above. He kicked aside a few pairs of boots that were strewn haphazardly on the floor and reached up to bring one of the boxes down, grunting at its surprising heft and ignoring a small twinge of guilt at stepping across another personal boundary line without Molly's knowledge.

A very small twinge of guilt. He was bored, after all. What else was he supposed to do?

Opening the lid, he saw that the box contained dishes. China, actually.

"Old china. Ugly too, I'm afraid - might as well be perfectly clear on the facts. Probably given to you by someone, or possibly left to you by the same woman who gave you that recipe book. Clearly a woman, judging by the handwriting in the book and the pattern on the china."

At least, it had been a woman who'd owned them originally. In any case, Molly clearly never used it. She didn't even have a dining table. What occasion could she possibly host in this flat that would call for the use of good china?

"Boring."

He put the box back, and grabbed another one.

This one contained random rubbish – a small heater that was most likely broken, a dish full of foreign coins that had clearly been saved out of some sort of sentiment. He wondered if she'd actually been to these places or if she had collected them while living vicariously through people who had. A few mobile phone chargers that were ancient.

"If you took the trouble of saving those, why wouldn't you have saved the phones that went with them? They're useless otherwise. Ridiculous."

The third box contained scarves and hats, and Sherlock decided irritably that he wasn't even going to bother with the final box, thoroughly unfulfilled by his investigation of Molly's front closet.

"Really, Molly...I can't be expected to feed my brain on this," he said to the silence of the flat. Scratching his head and pushing the coats back to the rear of the closet as they had been before, he went to turn around and shut the door when suddenly something caught his eye.

There, on the floor behind the coats, was a violin case.

Raising a brow, he deftly pushed the coats out of the way as he reached down to grab it, intrigued.

It was an old case, with scratches and dings all over the surface. Carrying it almost reverently out to the sitting room, Sherlock sat down on the couch and set it on the coffee table. Flipping the clasps up, he slowly opened the lid to reveal the instrument inside.

It was not an expensive violin and it was showing its age, but it was also well cared for and much used – this was not an instrument that had been purchased on a whim or for show. Reaching in, he grasped it by the neck and pulled it out, hoisting it onto his shoulder with practiced ease, relishing the feel of the chin rest against his jaw.

He suddenly felt a rush of homesickness wash over him.

Plucking at the strings, he could hear that it was woefully out of tune.

"Clearly not yours, then. That much was obvious, anyway. You would definitely have mentioned it to me at some point, if you played...knowing it would have given us a common ground."

Setting the violin down gently on the couch beside him, he unhooked the bow from the lid and ran his finger gently across the bow hair...it needed rosin. There was some in the box, but it was old and, Sherlock imagined, dry. A quick check confirmed this diagnosis. He couldn't help the sweep of disappointment he felt. He'd had it in his mind to play a bit.

Still, he couldn't resist drawing the bow over the G string just once on the open, first position. It sounded terrible with the dry bow, and sent the cat careening out of the room. Sherlock's mouth twisted in a smug smile.

"Good riddance."

Putting the violin away and carrying the case back to the closet, he suddenly had an epiphany about the final box on the shelf, the one he hadn't opened. Setting the case back down where it originally was and reaching up, he pulled the box down and threw the flaps open...and then smiled.

"Just as I expected. Where else would it be stowed away but next to its instrument?"

It was sheet music. Piles of it. All kinds, all composers...Sherlock felt like a nine year old who'd broken into a toy store as he sifted through, his smile growing each time he happened across one of his personal favorites. Finished with one pile, he turned to the other and as he flipped through, he found that there was quite a bit of original work mixed in amongst the Bach, Chopin and Vivaldi standards.

Plucking one out of the mess of paper, he cast an eye over the faded ink, which had in turn apparently been drawn over penciled notes as they had been deemed permanent parts of the composition.

"_Attempt #3 – and I need a Bloody Drink. _Eloquent."

Sherlock smiled wryly as he read the notes...the composition was interesting. He itched to put bow to string and hear it properly, but that wasn't going to happen. At least not today.

He sifted through a few more of the original works, some finished, most unfinished. Some of them had innocuous titles, some had none. It wasn't until he got nearly three quarters of the way down the pile that he was stopped short, staring incredulously at one particular piece with a simple, one-word title.

"_Molly"_

Sherlock delicately lifted it from the pile, squinting over the notes on the pages even as he knew he wasn't really absorbing them.

He was now lost in thought, trying to sort through the scraps of vague information and clues.

"A mystery composer who had apparently cared enough to write a five-page leitmotif for you, Molly Hooper. Clearly the same person who owned that violin. But who is it?"

Later that evening, having lost his battle with himself, Sherlock found himself reclining in the chair once again with her tatty scrapbook perched on his lap, flipping slowly through the pages he hadn't gotten to before. He couldn't help wondering if there were any more scattered around the flat, because of all the books he'd gone through in his time there, this was the only one that lingered in his mind long after he'd closed it.

He skipped disinterestedly over the pictures that didn't contain Molly herself – the ones she took of others. He didn't care about them.

Molly blowing out candles on a birthday cake, with the next shot being Molly tipping a huge purple cowboy hat on her head that said 'Happy Birthday' in big letters across the brim.

Molly sitting pensively on the floor of someone's house, between some man's knees, a glass of wine balanced at her hip. Definitely a boyfriend, this one...her hands were wrapped around his calves.

He glanced at the clock eventually, seeing that it was almost six and Molly would be home soon. He didn't want her to see him going through this album. Not only might it lead her to deduce that he'd been systematically taking apart her entire flat, but it could also be construed as being a bit sentimental.

He had the book put away and was already sitting in the kitchen when she came home, drumming his fingers on the island impatiently. As she struggled through the door with a bunch of bags, Sherlock didn't think to stand up and help her.

"Did you get the things I asked for?" he asked distractedly.

"Yes," she replied a tad breathlessly, setting the bags down on the armchair in the sitting room, "I hope it all fits."

"I'm sure it'll be fine, I don't intend to enter any fashion competitions," he said, sticking his hands in the bags she brought in and pulling things out. Jeans, fine...boring. A paddy cap, which he held up to her with an eyebrow raised.

"What did you expect?" she said, raising her eyebrows right back, "A deerstalker?"

He stared at her for a beat until he saw the humor dancing in her eyes...a joke. He was a bit relieved that she was injecting some humor into their interaction, as they'd both practically been robots since he'd arrived. He smiled mildly back and agreed,

"It wouldn't have been the most discreet choice."

The coat she'd gotten him, though, was leather...much more expensive than he'd intended her to go. She responded quickly to his unspoken concern, having read the look on his face.

"Don't worry, it wasn't that much. It's not the best they had or anything. Not the worst either, just kind of a so-so quality. But it's lined, and I wanted you to have something warm. And I couldn't picture you in anything...colorful."

He glanced at her. She finished lamely, "Consider it an early birthday present."

Startled, he realized that it was indeed his birthday in a few days. Frowning at her, he asked, "How do you know my birthdate?"

"_You_ know when mine is...I know you do. Last year you walked into the morgue and told me that I should be careful because at the rate I was aging, I might start to feel too much empathy for 'my patients' to properly do my job."

He winced slightly. He didn't remember this exchange, but he didn't doubt it had happened. He took a breath, still just looking at her, and finally said, "Sounds like my brand of abject insensitivity."

She seemed a bit surprised at the remorse in his voice. Clearly she hadn't meant to trigger a guilt trip. Smiling, she said, "It's fine. You can make it up to me by getting me something of mediocre quality on _my_ next birthday."

With that, she turned and walked towards the kitchen to start making tea, leaving Sherlock looking at the coat in his hands and inexplicably wondering suddenly why he'd never once seen her in _any_ of the coats that were hanging in her front closet.

* * *

_A/N – Sorry if anyone thinks this lacks action so far...it's a limitation of the concept, that most of it takes place in Sherlock's head as inner monologue (which is part of the reason I have him talking randomly to not-there Molly, to break it up). If it's any consolation, there are more dialogue-heavy chapters coming up. Also this story is intended as the first of two (possibly three) connected stories, so it's a lot of setup for now. And I personally like a slow build. __ Thanks to everyone who read/reviewed!_


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock stood outside of Molly's bedroom, fighting a rather profound moral battle with himself.

"It's no different than what I've been doing. It's just another room," he justified to no one in particular.

He knew better, though…he knew that it was different.

He clenched and unclenched his hands, standing there in his dressing gown and staring at the slightly dirty paint on the door. He could see where her fingerprints had smudged there from years of pushing the door open.

"This is just stupid," he argued with himself, "It's not as though I'm doing this because I'm some sort of pervert."

It was true, he wasn't looking to find anything salacious…he was simply hungry for stimulation. Not _that_ kind of stimulation, either. Mental stimulation.

He'd already run through everything he possibly could in the other rooms of her flat. Every closet had been opened, every book and film examined, every cupboard inspected. He'd even checked underneath the couch…so he'd tried his best to put off coming into this room.

Her bedroom.

"There's nothing for it," he declared stiffly as he turned the knob and let himself in, resigned to just not think about it anymore.

The moment he walked through the door, he was struck by the fact that there was a concentrated 'Molly' scent in the air, stronger than it was in the rest of the flat. He recognized it as her perfume…the same perfume she'd worn for at least the past three years. The whole room was cast in a warm glow as the morning sun shone through the sheer red curtains that hung over the tall windows – homemade curtains, he noticed.

Sherlock walked slowly over to the old-fashioned vanity in the corner of the room – solid wood, with an attached mirror. There were various baubles – necklaces, ribbons and the like – hung over it, and some photos stuck into the edges. He let his eyes wander over them briefly. Mostly people he didn't know…people from what he'd started to call Molly Hooper's 'real' life.

It was merely another symptom of how out of control his ego could get at times that he'd assumed he occupied a much larger space in Molly's life than it turns out he actually did. He couldn't deny that a small, very repressed motivation for this invasion into her personal things was keen to discover some small memento representing himself, tucked away somewhere.

"I don't suppose I've given you many positive memories worth holding onto, though, have I?" he asked aloud.

He let his fingers dance over the clutter of objects on the vanity's surface. Makeup, various lotions and balms. A very girlish amalgamation of items…sometimes he forgot Molly was a girl. Well…a woman.

He stopped as he came across her perfume bottle…almost gone, there was only a bit left at the bottom. Lifting it to his nose, he inhaled its scent before reading the label – Un Jardin Apres le Mousson, Hermes, Paris. There were others there, but obviously this was the one she loved best and used the most.

It smelled like her. The wave of familiarity he felt when he smelled it was so strong it was almost as though someone had simply bottled 'Molly'.

Setting it down, he frowned slightly as he suddenly felt very large and foreign in this delicate, feminine space.

He turned and ran a hand along the top of her dresser, again, an old piece of furniture. Only a slight sheen of dust on the top of it. Clean, but not obsessive about it. It matched what he'd observed about the flat in general.

She had another framed photograph of herself with her father on her dresser, which was totally dust-free, he noticed. He picked it up and looked at it for a moment…this one was taken more recently than the one in the other room. Molly already had her brown hair. Neither of them were smiling fake smiles for the camera – they were simply looking genially at whoever had snapped the shot, serenity written all over both their expressions. He could see an expanse of water in the background, and their hair was being mussed by the wind. It looked almost like they were on a boat.

Ah. A fisherman. Obvious.

He set the frame carefully back where it was and glanced at the painting that hung on the wall above the dresser, between the two large windows. It wasn't a print, it was an original. He wondered if it had been painted for her, or if she'd bought it somewhere. Did she do that kind of thing? Go to art fairs and galleries to buy original art?

He brushed his fingers once again over the top of the dresser, feeling the knicks and bumps where it had been distressed, and then his hands slid down and slowly pulled open the top drawer.

Sherlock froze as he was confronted with the vibrant sight of Molly Hooper's underwear drawer. For a moment, he couldn't react as his eyes darted over the collection in front of him. Cotton, silk and lace flooded his vision in every style and color imaginable. Black, green, white, pink, red…

Absently, he swallowed and allowed a finger to tentatively hook itself around a bra…it was pink, with black lace trim. He caressed it briefly with his fingertips and suddenly his mind was assaulted with a vision of what she must look like wearing it.

Sherlock abruptly sent the drawer crashing shut, turned and stalked out of the room. The cat ran screeching under the couch in the sitting room as he slammed the door roughly behind him.

He stood there for a couple minutes, taking a couple deep breaths and fighting against the overwhelming feeling of…what, exactly? He was definitely disconcerted. Flustered even. His earlier assertion that he hadn't gone into Molly Hopper's flat looking for anything scandalous had taken a slight beating.

"Don't be ridiculous. It was completely accidental," he defended himself out loud as the cat peered around the corner to look at him reproachfully.

Opening the drawer had been accidental…but, he admitted to himself, he couldn't exactly cite the same excuse for his actual fondling of her underthings.

"Alright," he conceded to the cat, "A bit not good."

Irritated at the continued rebuke the cat seemed to be directing at him, he sniffed in its direction and turned to re-enter Molly's bedroom. He wasn't going to go near her dresser again, but he felt he needed to end his exploration of her room on a less depraved note. He supposed it was some sort of way of redeeming himself. He truly hadn't meant to root through her lingerie like some hormonal teenager. Everyone knew he wasn't driven by sex, nor was he influenced by it.

Much.

Shaking his head to clear it, he turned and made his way to her closet. He'd had success with the closet in the hallway, and thought perhaps there would be something interesting to find in this one as well.

The first thing he noticed was that this closet was not only bigger, but also fuller than the other one. It was a walk-in, but there was barely any room to do so. Sherlock ran a hand along the clothes that were hung in the hangers…obviously not the clothes he normally saw her wear, these were nicer things. Various dresses. Blouses. Jackets.

"Really, Molly…more coats? I'd say we're definitely venturing into overkill territory."

She had a couple of dressing gowns hanging on a hook on the inside of the door. Sherlock recognized the white one he'd almost made her ruin the other day, and then there was an emerald green one. He was slightly interested in the collection of shoes on the floor – obviously she cared about these more than the ones in the front, as these were all matched and lined up. The flats that she always wore to Bart's, but then there were also several pairs that Sherlock could only describe as…stylish.

Crouching down, he pulled a box from the very back of the closet floor out into the scant light coming from the tiny window and opened it up to reveal a collection of seemingly random things that had no discernible connection whatsoever. A worn teddy bear, a bit of jewelry, some scarves. A couple of books.

"Come on. I need something interesting," Sherlock grumbled as his hands delved deeper into the box.

Finally, he came across a framed picture in a chipped glass frame. He picked it up and looked closely…it was of Molly, and a woman who looked exactly like Molly only older.

"Your mother…obviously."

He glanced back at the dresser, on which stood the immaculately kept picture of Molly and her father, then looked back at the photograph in his hand. Hidden away, in a frame that had seen better days.

"A clear reflection of the relationships themselves," Sherlock murmured, his eyes locked on Molly's mother as she looked silently back at him from her chipped frame, relinquishing no secrets. "You aren't really bereft of family, then, as I always assumed. You're alone by choice, Molly Hooper. Yours? Or hers?"

He set the photo aside and picked up a stack of cards…birthday cards, Christmas cards, some random congratulations cards. Those were less rote than the others, so he opened one and read.

"_To my darling girl – I knew you'd get that job, of course – you're brilliant like me, ha ha! Congratulations Molly Coddle, and when you're drowning in prestige, don't forget us 'little people'. Love you, Mum and Dad."_

Signed 'Mum and Dad', but clearly written in her mother's hand. Sherlock put that one to the back of the stack and opened another.

"_Happy 27__th__, my Molly! You've grown up to be gorgeous like me (ha ha), but you'll always be a little girl in braids to us. Have a fun day! Love, Mum and Dad."_

Again, written by her mother. He went through a few more of the old ones, all of them written my her mother and containing similar sentiments. When he got to the front of the pile, though, something changed. Instead of a loving message and the usual 'Love, Mum and Dad' sign off, there was nothing in the newer cards except for a simple "_Mum_".

No 'love' expressed, no personal greeting…and Dad was nowhere to be found.

Sherlock closed the card in his hand and stared into space, lost in thought. He knew Molly's father had passed away, since she'd told him as much not long ago. He also knew that her father had died as a result of some long-term illness, he'd assumed cancer.

Apparently, though, the circumstances surrounding her father's death had somehow driven a wedge between Molly and her mother…a large enough wedge to result in their subsequent communication being minimal and perfunctory at best.

"You keep the cards, but you don't want to look at them and so you shove them in a box at the back of your closet. So the estrangement isn't your choice…you keep these out of melancholy sentiment, but looking at them is painful for you so you hide them away," he spoke softly to the absent Molly.

He turned what was obviously the latest card, a birthday card, over in his hand.

"What happened here, Molly Hooper?"

* * *

Sherlock just barely managed to get everything back in order and get out to the kitchen before Molly herself came through the front door, carrying a bag.

He watched her shut the door behind her and felt like he was seeing her for the first time. It was like that almost every time she came home from Bart's these days. Every day, he found out more of her secrets and every day, he felt he was meeting her for the first time.

Today, as she looked up at him with tired brown eyes and smiled, that familiar sensation was accompanied by a couple of new ones.

A feeling of empathy threatened to overwhelm him as he recalled what he'd seen in the concealed box in the darkest corner of her closet. He understood all too well that being alone through the rejection of others was infinitely more lonely and painful than being alone through mere physical circumstance.

On the heels of this came a stab of guilt at having spent his day pawing through her most personal and private things. Sherlock didn't usually feel guilty for such things…he did what he had to do, and all that mattered to him was keeping his brain fresh and primed. This time, however, some part of his now well-stimulated mind told him he had crossed a line. He couldn't excuse himself by pretending that she should have expected him to have a look. That might be true for the sitting room, or the kitchen. He was fairly certain she trusted him enough not to invade her bedroom, no matter how bored he was.

She had misplaced her trust, then. Simple as that.

Moreover, he had to admit to himself that none of this guilt meant that he wasn't going to go right back in there at the earliest opportunity he got.

Once he was interested in something, he was unrelenting.

"What's in the bag?" he asked, breaking the silence. She handed it to him as she replied,

"Oh, it's for you…just some things I thought you'd need."

He opened it up and saw that it contained things that he did, in fact, desperately need – razors, aftershave, washcloths, deodorant and the like. Pausing, he quirked a brow and looked at her.

"How did you know what aftershave I use?"

At this, Molly blushed slightly but didn't waver as she confessed, "I've been smelling it on you for years. I recognized it right away."

He opened his mouth to say something about her perfume, but then realized it would be a terrible giveaway. He could see now that he was going to have to be very careful to remember, as they conversed, which things he knew about Molly through aboveboard channels and which information he'd garnered through his prying.

Clearing his throat, he simply said, "Thank you."

Nodding, she turned and grabbed a cookbook – the book of recipes she'd compiled.

"I thought I'd cook…is that alright, or did you want a takeaway?"

"No, please," he said, waving his hand vaguely in the direction of the cooktop, "Be my guest."

He stopped just short of making a request based on what he'd seen in that book.

Yes, he thought. They were on very uneven ground now.

As it turned out, Sherlock didn't have to worry about it for long.

That night, a tapping on her front door interrupted their viewing of the ten o'clock news. Molly glanced nervously at Sherlock, then seemed outright horrorstruck as he rolled his eyes and stood, headed for the door.

"Wait! You can't open…"

"I'd know that tap anywhere," he interrupted her, and then pulled the door open to reveal Mycroft, who stood there holding a folder full of files in one hand and his umbrella in the other.

"You look well for a dead man," he said in jaded greeting.

"Always the diplomat," Sherlock sneered, although secretly he was relieved to see his brother. It meant things were finally going to start moving, happening.

"I've brought you what you need to get started," he said, holding out the folder, "However, you'll have to hurry if you want to intercept the first target. My information puts him in Istanbul, but he may not be there for long…"

"Long enough," Sherlock said, grabbing his suit jacket up off where it had been hanging on the stool in the kitchen, "Have you arranged transportation for me?"

"Yes, and there is a bag packed with things you'll need. I, unfortunately, must warn you that you'll be on your own. I cannot get too close to this, Sherlock. Even I have people who watch what I'm doing with great…curiosity."

"Fine. I work better alone," he said, fully aware that it was a lie. An image of John flashed through his thoughts, and he shook off the sting it brought.

"Shall we?" Mycroft said silkily, standing aside to allow Sherlock to move past him.

"Do you...do you want to take the things I got you?" came a soft voice behind him, and he turned to find Molly standing behind him, having listened silently to the entire conversation. She was looking at him with a mixture of apprehension and resignation.

In his zeal to get started on what he had to do, he had been about to walk out the door without so much as a backward glance, and realized his error as he looked at her. Tipping his head down to gaze into her eyes, he said quietly,

"Save them for me. I'll be back eventually. Unless you object?"

"When?" she asked, not addressing his question.

"No idea...and this is going to be how it is from now on. It all depends on the work. If you feel you can't handle that, I'll make other arrangements."

She seemed a tad affronted at this, but merely shook her head. "Whatever you need."

He smiled slightly, then bent to give her a quick peck on the cheek. "Thank you, Molly Hooper. For everything."

He didn't look back as he walked out of her flat and down to the black car that was waiting for him below.

* * *

A/N - that one was a bit shorter than usual I think. Longer ones coming up. Thanks again to all who are following this. :)


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock stepped out of the black car that had squired him from the train station and through London to his destination and looked up at the windows of Molly Hooper's flat. Her lights were on. Good.

"Do you really think this is the wisest choice, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, doubt dripping from his melodious voice, "I am able to get you perfectly acceptable accommodation elsewhere."

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock answered, turning to face his brother, "This is the most convenient solution for me."

"Perhaps, but is it convenient for _her_?" Mycroft smiled deprecatingly at him.

Sherlock slammed the car door in response.

He started walking toward the building when suddenly an approaching figure caught his eye. Without missing a beat, he quickly turned the corner instead of continuing up the walkway, which would have had him following the man – who seemed to be heading into Molly's building. Frowning and irritated, Sherlock ducked behind a bush to his right and waited, listening.

After a moment, Molly's voice came through the intercom. "Who is it?"

"Miss Hooper?" the man spoke, "I was wondering if you had a few minutes to answer some questions."

A pause, then Molly's voice came more firmly, "Who _is_ it?"

He heard the man sigh, frustrated. "I was wondering if you could give me a couple of quotes. About Sherlock Holmes and your relationship with him."

Another pause, and then Molly's voice again, "No, thank you."

"How close _were_ you to Sherlock Holmes before his untimely death? Word has it that you were infatuated with him," the man persisted. This time, there was no pause before Molly's voice came sharply back through the intercom.

"I don't have any kind of relationship with him at all. He's dead. Goodbye!"

"Yes, and his death must have come as a huge shock. Are you finding it hard to grieve for him after he lied to you about his work and then took his own life?"

No answer. Sherlock glanced over and noticed that Mycroft was still parked annoyingly by the curb, watching the entire exchange as well and no doubt relishing the sight of Sherlock crouched in the shrubbery.

"Miss Hooper?"

After another silence from Molly, the man gave up and walked back down the path and towards the tube, where he had come from in the first place. These people couldn't even let him rest in peace, Sherlock thought crossly.

Sherlock emerged from the bushes and stalked over to Mycroft's car, rapping on the window. Once it had rolled down, once again revealing Mycroft's face, he said, "Get out."

"I was merely making sure the situation didn't get out of hand."

"It's well in hand. Leave, Mycroft."

Raising a brow at him, Mycroft replied, "Fine. I'll be in touch with your next lead shortly."

"Doubtless," Sherlock grumbled in response as the car pulled away. Turning, he walked swiftly up to the door and pressed the button that said "Hooper".

"I said piss off!"

This made him smile in spite of himself. "Molly."

A brief pause, and then the buzzer sounded as she let him in. He made it quickly up the stairs and was greeted by the sight of her already holding the door open and beckoning him inside. Once he was close enough, she grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him through the door, shutting it behind them as she whirled around.

"Did he see you? That reporter?"

"No," he said, disentangling himself from her hand. She stood awkwardly for a moment before running both hands through her wet hair.

"Bad day at work?" he asked.

"Yes, it was. An absolutely awful day, actually..."

She trailed off, still running her fingers methodically through her hair. He didn't know if she was trying to relieve stress or make sure it looked decent now that she had company in the flat. Finally she looked up at him, tentatively inquisitive.

"How did you know?"

"What?"

"That I had a bad day?"

He scoffed a bit and replied, "Simple. Your hair is wet, you obviously just took a shower. Normally you take showers in the morning before you make coffee to drink while you get ready. Clearly you wanted to wash the day away. Regrettably, thoughts and feelings can't be purged in the shower, which is why you are halfway through a bottle of wine and were about to pop in a DVD – probably one of the weepy dramas you have stacked on your coffee table."

She reddened a bit as she glanced into the sitting room, and he finished wryly, "I think you should reconsider your action plan, Molly, as your logic is flawed. I seriously doubt a depressing film would do much to improve your mood."

She sighed and resigned herself to his presence as she replied wearily, "What if I just wanted to wallow?"

"Why would anyone want to do that?"

"I don't know. Because there's little chance of feeling better no matter what, so might as well wallow?" she said over her shoulder as she led the way back to the sofa, "_You_ do it all the time."

Frowning, he stripped off his coat and hung it up before following her. "I don't wallow. I seethe."

He observed her as she raised her eyebrows at him and took a sip from her glass, waiting for him to sit down. Flush on her cheeks which wasn't waning, eyelids heavy over slightly glassy eyes. The corner of his mouth turned up.

"You're intoxicated."

Her brows snapped together as she looked up at him incredulously. "What? I've had two glasses. Not _even_ two, I haven't finished my second."

"Then your constitution is weaker than I thought."

"I'm not drunk, Sherlock. Don't be ridiculous. I'm tired and hungry and it's hitting me a bit harder than usual, that's all."

"Why not eat, then?"

"Too lazy to make anything."

"Takeaway?"

"It's nearly ten, much too late. I'll just wait until breakfast. But thanks."

He remained silent but continued to smirk at her. She glanced at him and rolled her eyes at the look on his face, which only caused his smirk to grow into something that very closely resembled a smile. He couldn't help it, he enjoyed watching her get embarrassed. And frankly, she was always such an easy target. Tilting his chin up, he regarded her as he said,

"No tea to speak of and an inebriated host. Not exactly the most polite way to greet a guest, Molly."

She frowned over at him and retorted grumpily, "Yes, well usually guests call before they show up."

"Actually, they're usually invited ahead of time," he corrected, "Which I was. By you, last time I was here. Speaking of which, I assume you're still alright with my staying here until further notice? I don't have many other options, to put it mildly."

She seemed to soften a bit at this and responded quietly, "Yeah...yes, of course. I'll get the duvet."

He looked around while she went to retrieve the duvet and pillow for him. Nothing much had changed, which didn't surprise him. After a moment she came back out of her bedroom, her brows furrowed and her hands on her hips.

"Where did I put that thing?"

As she cast her eyes around the room, puzzled, Sherlock suddenly got an idea. Taking a couple of steps backwards and pulling the front closet door open, he suggested casually, "Perhaps in here?"

He glanced over at her, but she didn't seem at all suspicious. In fact, it didn't even seem as though she'd registered his input as she continued to mumble to herself. He got distracted for a moment as he watched her throw herself around the flat looking for the duvet. The snort of laughter he gave as he watched her whack her shin on the coffee table and yelp softly was almost as fond as it was derisive - almost. Reaching into the closet, shoved aside the coats and found the old violin sitting exactly where he'd last seen it. Grabbing it up, he straightened just as he heard Molly cry out.

"Oh, I found it! Right in front of my face, on the…"

She trailed off as she saw Sherlock standing there with the violin.

"Where did you find that?" she asked, her voice alight with curiosity and a trace of sentiment.

"It was in there, on the floor," he jerked his head towards the closet, and, not wanting her to ask too many questions, quickly said, "It looks ancient."

"Oh…yes, I suppose it is," she said, huffing out a little laugh, "It was my dad's. But it was his mother's before that. My grandmother's…well, obviously, my grandmother is my dad's mum."

She laughed again at herself, and reached out to run a hand along the top of the case. He watched her face as a million memories flowed in and out of her head, but said nothing. After a moment, she murmured absently,

"I completely forgot it was in there, actually."

Clearing his throat, he set it down on the island in the kitchen and asked, "May I?"

It was a perfunctory question, considering he had already handled the instrument, but she didn't know that and he didn't intend for her to find out. Her eyes rose to meet his and she seemed surprised.

"Go ahead. Oh…of course! I forgot you play!"

"It helps me to think," he elaborated scantly, and flipped open the lid of the case, gently lifting the violin out and setting it in position on his shoulder, his left hand playing a silent tune on the fingerboard. "This is a good instrument…if a bit worn."

"Oh, God, it hasn't been handled in years. Poor thing…I really should let someone else have it, or give it away or something, but..."

She seemed lost in thought for a moment, and he observed brusquely, "Sentiment."

Glancing up at him again, she nodded. "Afraid so."

Sherlock plucked lightly at the strings, hoping she wouldn't notice that it was miraculously in tune after – he guessed – seven years. She didn't seem to, though. Just observed him quietly for a moment. Either she wasn't a musical person or she just wasn't very observant. His bet would be on the former, since he was well aware of exactly how observant she could be.

"It looks natural. The instrument in your hands, I mean."

He raised a brow at her and brought the violin back down, setting it in its case. "It should. I've been playing since I was four years old."

"Really?"

She seemed impressed which, uncharacteristically, made him feel a bit modest. "Well…not in any serious capacity. I was far more interested in torturing Mycroft and playing with the family dog than I was in sitting with my dull violin instructor."

"Still," she said, "That's a long time. You should be fairly good by now."

There was a lull in the conversation, during which he closed the lid and carried the instrument back to its place in the closet. He couldn't put his finger on why, but he found himself fighting a fleeting feeling of disappointment.

He couldn't help noticing she seemed a bit deflated, too, as she waved her hand at the couch, which now held the duvet and a pillow.

"Well, you're all set. I, um…when you got here I was thinking I might just turn in, actually. I'm really tired."

He didn't respond immediately as he looked at her. She was lying to him. She hadn't been about to go to bed. She'd been trying to decide what film she wanted to watch. She was going to bed _now_ because she felt uncomfortable with him in the room. With him in general, he guessed.

"What about your film?" he asked impassively, and she gave him a wan smile.

"You're right, it wouldn't have done me much good anyway."

As the silence stretched on, her smile faded and she added, "I'm glad you're okay, Sherlock. I do worry when you're gone...a little."

They stared at each other for an awkward moment before she finally said goodnight again and walked into her room, closing the door. Sherlock sighed. Why did it always have to be so damned painful to hold a normal conversation with her for more an a few minutes?

He knew the reason, though. It was his fault. He'd spent years making sure it was as uncomfortable as he could, simply because it was easier for him if she tried to converse with him as infrequently as possible while he was doing his work at Bart's. That was the true motivation behind his teasing, his targeting her for his most vicious rants and blunt deductions. He'd found her annoying, and he'd wanted her to leave him alone.

He never expected that one day, he'd regret it. That a day would come when he'd crave her company and because of how clear he'd made it that her conversation was unwelcome, she would not feel comfortable giving it to him.

Suddenly her bedroom door opened again and she came padding out in her bare feet, her hair now tied up in a messy knot. She regarded him as though she'd had a small revelation, and he stayed silent until she spoke.

"You can use it, you know."

"Sorry?"

"The violin. You said it helps you to think. You can…that is, feel free. It's just sitting there anyway."

He stared at her, the slight disappointment he had felt moments ago now replaced with another feeling. He found himself…honored. Still, he was not the sort of person that easily expressed that sort of thing, so the only thing he could think to say – somewhat hoarsely – was,

"The rosin is old."

"What?"

"The rosin for the bow. It's dried out. Can't play properly without it, unfortunately."

"Oh," she said, looking a bit discouraged. "Well…"

"Thank you anyway," he said, and she nodded mutely before going back into her room, softly shutting the door and leaving Sherlock alone with his thoughts.

While he'd been gone, during the lulls, he'd been stuck in a dingy flat with nothing but a coat, a gun, a takeaway menu and an internet connection.

He'd used the coat for warmth, the gun for protection, the takeaway menu for bad Chinese and the internet connection mostly for doing research on the mysteries that now seemed to surround Molly Hooper.

He hadn't analyzed it, mostly because he hadn't wanted to delve too deeply into the whys and what-fors. He'd simply chalked it up to boredom and no brain stimulation, and went about his search.

He'd found some basic facts about Molly, but nothing that he hadn't known already. Her birthdate (November 8th), where she grew up (Grimsby, Lincolnshire) and other trivial details. Nothing that brought him any insight. His research had led him organically from investigating Molly to investigating her father, whom he'd learned was called Thomas Hooper. Since he'd had no previous knowledge of Thomas Hooper at all, he'd managed to glean quite a bit of new information from the morsels of fact that were floating around out there.

Sherlock found out from an archive of his obituary that he had died in March of 2005 at the relatively young age of 59 and had been cremated. He'd been a fisherman, which Sherlock had already known, but he'd also apparently been somewhat heavily involved in the Fishermen's Mission charity and, as he'd gotten on in years, had done work for Seafish.

He'd been in a band called "Captains Courageous" in which he had not only played the fiddle but also the tin whistle. They'd won several awards at local and national music festivals.

None of this, however, had shed any light on the circumstances surrounding his death. Finally, after another couple weeks of nightly searching through various channels (both legal and not, with Sherlock having no qualms about abusing the access Mycroft allowed him to sensitive information for the purposes of his work), he had stumbled upon a bit more information – Thomas Hooper had died from complications that were the result of a malignant tumor in the pancreas.

Still not satisfying – Sherlock had assumed he'd died from cancer, or something similarly degenerative, simply based upon the one conversation he and Molly had ever had on the subject. After much deliberation and several attempts to throw the subject from his mind, he had decided he would have to actively seek out further details that couldn't be found through a simple (or complex) web search.

Things started moving before he could do anything more with the problem, Mycroft having contacted him with locations. He was required to put his mind to the more immediate problem – the assassin he was tracking. Once that threat had been neutralized, there had been a car waiting to collect him that very night, and now - less than twenty-four hours later - he found himself back on Molly Hooper's couch.

With her scrapbook. Again. The damn thing seemed to be haunting him for some reason, he thought as he flipped through. Looking for photos.

A short-haired Molly and a blonde friend at a rainy outdoor concert, excitedly pointing to the band emblem on their shirts. The ticket stub from that concert is layered on top of the photograph, as well as a used coaster from some pub.

Molly and another friend trying to figure out how to milk a cow, apparently. She's bent over, eyeing the cow's udders. Her friend is laughing at her. By the next shot she's got it, her Wellies planted on either side of a bucket as she concentrates on milking the cow, her tongue sticking out slightly through her teeth as she focuses.

He'd seen her do that in the lab, too, as she worked. Secretly, he'd always found it charming.

Sherlock snapped the book shut and returned it roughly to the shelf.

He didn't fall asleep for a long time, his thoughts swirling around in his head and his brain refusing, as usual, to shut off.

* * *

The following day, Molly came home at noon, bringing Sherlock lunch. Handing him the bag, she explained, "I thought you might be hungry. You're right, I wasn't really ready for you to show up yesterday. I'll do some proper shopping on my way home tonight."

He hummed a non-committal response as he opened the bag and rifled through it. A sandwich of some kind, crisps. His hand stilled as it brushed something that felt very familiar. Looking up at her, he pulled out a block of rosin.

She colored slightly. "I thought about it. I really would like it if you used that violin. Really."

He waited for her to elaborate, which she did after a moment. "I remember listening to my Gran play that violin, and then after she died, it was my Dad's. It's just been a really long time since anyone enjoyed playing it, and it's a shame that it's been sitting there in my coat closet, forgotten, for so long. I really…I sort of feel guilty about it, actually."

"Guilty?"

She shrugged. "I should have done something with it."

"Such as?"

"I...don't know. It should have been appreciated by someone, I reckon."

"Just because you don't play yourself doesn't mean you can't appreciate having it," he stopped and looked at her, "You don't, do you?"

"What?"

"Play?"

"Not unless you count a very scratchy Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star."

This got a genuine smile out of him – he was actually relieved he hadn't missed _that_, too. For a split second, he was worried she was about to shock him again. Tossing the rosin up into the air and catching it again, he felt lighthearted for the first time in what seemed like months.

"Well, thank you, Molly. I'll try to do the previous owners justice."

"Oh, you'll manage. They usually played a different kind of music, anyway."

He frowned. "What do you mean? Different from what?"

She seemed to struggle to find the words to explain, and then finally she replied, "They learned classic violin, but...well, they were more prone to playing in pubs and living rooms than opera houses and theaters. You know?"

He scanned her face. "Yes, I see. Being posh, I play boring, traditional violin while they played from the heart. Salt of the earth, and all that."

She looked horrified for a moment, and he smirked. "Relax, Molly, it was a joke."

Letting out a relieved breath, she muttered, "Don't make jokes, Sherlock."

He raised his brows in surprise. Cheek? From Molly Hooper?

_This_ was definitely new.

"Fine, then I'll just make observations. You were going to eat lunch with me but couldn't wait until you got home and scarfed your sandwich on the tube."

Now she really _was_ blushing. "I didn't end up being able to eat breakfast…anyway, how did you know?"

"Easy. Crumbs stuck inside the ruffle on the front of your shirt, plus…"

Sherlock reached over and gently brushed the corner of her mouth with his thumb, turning it around to show it to her before finishing, "Mustard."

Molly could do little more than stand there gaping for a second, and then she quickly and unnecessarily raised her own hand to swipe at her lips, embarrassed. She opened her mouth to say something, then closed it, then opened it again before finally stating softly,

"Well...I hate mayonnaise."

Sherlock actually laughed a bit at this, watching as her blush receded. Holding her eyes for just a second longer, he turned and strode over to the closet to fetch the violin, the sandwich she'd brought him forgotten for now.

"Actually, I can't stay...it took me longer than I expected to get back here, so I suppose it's a good thing I ate my sandwich already," she called after him, and he could hear her pulling her keys back out of her bag.

At the moment, he didn't care whether she stayed or went. His fingers were itching to get at that bow.

"See you tonight," he said absently as he carried the violin back into the sitting room. She nodded, waited for a moment, then turned and left. He barely noticed.

Drawing the bow over the new block of rosin, he marveled at how something so small could make him feel so at home. Once he was satisfied that the bow was well-prepared, he picked up the violin and played a few notes to make sure he'd tuned it properly. It was easier to discern while drawing the bow, as opposed to plucking.

Finally, he began to play in earnest. He did not consider himself a particularly accomplished violinist...merely serviceable. Yet the sound of his own notes resonating through the otherwise silent flat was possibly the most beautiful thing he'd ever heard, and he allowed his eyes to close so he could fully enjoy it.

After what seemed like a few minutes but what actually turned out to be over an hour, he broke off, sat down and rested the violin in his lap, looking towards the front closet once again. He was feeling very relaxed, and considered that he could easily and happily spend the rest of the afternoon doing this. There was something, however, that he wanted to accomplish today. Just a small thing, nothing to do with anything except sating his curiosity...which, he supposed, was often his primary motivation for doing things, anyway.

He walked over to the closet and pulled out the box of music, reaching all the way to the bottom where he knew he'd stashed the composition he wanted to play and pulling it out.

"Molly," he read aloud.

He gave it a quick scan before taking it back to prop it on one of Molly's shelves, at eye level. The composition was complete – definitely the work of someone who'd learned to read music at an early age, and knew how to use the intricacies of notation to create a fully realized vision.

"This is where learning the 'posh' way comes in handy, Molly Hooper," he said as he tentatively began to play the notes as he read them.

The song was, he had to admit, lovely. It started slowly, with drawn out lilting, soulful tones and gradually built to a blithe and stirring finish. It suited Molly Hooper perfectly. There was no question in his mind that it was her father who'd written it, not her grandmother. The composer had obviously known Molly on a profound level, and had managed to capture her as though her essence was woven into the notes on the page. The whole thing was whimsical, dreamy and pure, with undertones of remarkable complexity hiding just under the surface.

Complexity that Sherlock hadn't perceived until recently, and which he still didn't quite fully understand.

He finished the piece and stood staring at the handwritten sheet music for a long moment, the song playing out in his head, only in his head he was hearing it as it should be played - by a much more skilled hand than his own.

He shook his head, troubled and slightly disgusted by the uncharacteristic mawkishness that had leaked into his thoughts, and set the violin down on the chair. Picking up the sheet music, he found he was replaying the melody in his head.

It was still running through his mind when Molly came home that night, and he'd be lying if he said it didn't bring a modicum of tenderness to his gaze as he watched her at her cook top, stirring the curry she was making them for dinner. He also wouldn't expect anyone with half a brain to believe him if he denied the fact that he actually made an exceptional effort to connect with her that evening as they sat in her sitting room with their bowls balanced on their laps, the TV turned down to a faint background din and the silence between them relatively comfortable for once.

"I enjoyed getting the chance to play today," he said, his voice low, as though he was trying not to startle her with his sudden desire for her conversation, "The violin."

"Oh, that's good," she replied, her voice equally soft, "Really. I'm upset with myself that it didn't occur to me when you were here before."

Shaking his head, he stabbed at a pepper with his fork and replied, "It helps pass the time. I used to do the same thing at home."

She was silent for a moment, then asked almost timidly, "Do you miss it terribly?"

He looked up and met her eyes. "What?"

"Home."

A beat passed before he answered honestly, "Yes."

She nodded and absently pulled her bread apart, swirling it in the sauce. Watching her for a few seconds, he continued, unbidden, "It doesn't matter where I am, actually. Home, or somewhere else. I'm always running from the boredom."

Molly seemed a bit taken aback that he'd voluntarily continued talking about himself, but quickly recovered. "Yeah, I'll bet it's...hard. I mean, you're such a..."

She paused, trying to find her words, and he supplied with a smirk, "Freak?"

Her eyes shot up to his face, and her dismay at the word was laced with deep-seated indignation. It obviously wasn't the first time she'd heard the word used in reference to him, from someone. Probably several people.

"No...God, no. I was going to say, actually, that you're such a brilliant man. It's got to be hard to find things that are interesting to you. I suppose that's the appeal of playing music...it's mechanical and soothing. You don't have to do much thinking."

Sherlock stared at her, surprised not only at her perception, but also that somehow she'd managed to deliver this insight without any trace of the idolization that used to taint her interactions with him. She simply said it as though she were stating a fact.

It warmed him.

"Thank you," he said simply, and she held his gaze for a moment before looking back down at her food.

"No need for thanks. It's the truth, that's all."

They finished their dinner in silence and, after Molly cleaned up, she bid him goodnight and left him to another restless night on her couch. When she woke in the morning, he was already gone. He'd left a note merely saying he'd be back later that day.

He had things he wanted to do.

Needed to do.

* * *

_A/N – Getting into a bit more dialogue now - actually this chapter was pretty dialogue-heavy. But Sherlock isn't done snooping either! Also, I like coming up with my own little details when I read fic, but just in case anyone wanted to know, the song I had in mind for Molly's theme when I wrote this was "**La Valse d'Amelie**" by **Yann Tiersen** (the orchestral version). Sadly, you can't evoke musical notes with words very effectively. :)_


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock sat across from the woman who owned the little cottage by the sea, sipping tea that was turning chilly as rapidly as was the mood in the room.

He barely knew what he was doing there and he hated going into a situation without a clear goal in mind, or even a decent motive. Yet here he was, his brain scrambling to think of a way that he could salvage this interview and perhaps still manage to gain some information from it.

"I'm sorry," the woman spoke suddenly, obviously uncomfortable with both the silence and his scrutiny, "Who did you say you were with again?"

Placing his cup back in the saucer, he answered genially, "Sainsbury's Bank. Insurance division."

Her brown eyes searched his face. "I don't…I didn't realize Sainsbury's did insurance. And I already hold a life insurance policy with Aviva, so I'm not interested in…"

"I'm not selling policies, Mrs. Hooper," Sherlock assured her, setting his tea down on the table in front of him, "I'm merely here to inquire after your late husband."

This startled her, and he saw a flash of concern cross her face as she questioned, "Tom?"

"Yes, Thomas Hooper. He passed away…seven years ago, was it?"

She stared, and he plastered what he hoped was a sincere look on his face as he interjected, "I'm very sorry for your loss, of course."

She took one more moment to think before replying, "Yes. Seven years ago in March."

He nodded and pretended to scribble something in the notebook he'd brought with him. "And, he died of…cancer, is that correct?"

"Yes, pancreatic. But I don't understand…what's the purpose of this? All of this is well-documented, not to mention long past."

"We often do a follow up interview if…new information is presented to us."

He had merely been trying to feed her whatever inane explanation she needed to get past the confusion and on to what Sherlock wanted to talk about, but he was intrigued as the confusion in her face was suddenly augmented by fear, which she tried unsuccessfully to conceal.

Interesting.

Setting her own cup back in its saucer, she said in a measured voice, "You…when you knocked, you told me you were working with the authorities?"

"Well, yes. In a roundabout way."

"New information? What new information? He was sick for almost a year, and then the cancer took him. What 'new information' could possibly come out of that?"

"I…"

"And anyway," she interrupted, now putting her tea down on the table with a forceful clink and folding her hands in her lap, "If you're investigating for some sort of fraud, you should already know that the policy Tom had was very small. Barely covered his…final expenses. We always meant to upgrade, of course, but…well, no one ever expects these things to happen so suddenly."

She was rambling now. Obviously nervous. Why?

"Mrs. Hooper," he pressed, leaning forward and fixing her with his most gentle scrutiny, "It's just a formality. There have been some management and ownership changes in some of the divisions of the firm, and we're simply revisiting past claims at random as a kind of self-audit."

She scanned his face, unconvinced. "I see…"

"So, without causing you worry that anything is wrong…I simply have to ask you if you were satisfied with the medical treatment your husband received, and if you were happy with the way things were wrapped up."

Her brows shot together…he'd offended her somehow. Backtracking, he added, "Taking into account the inherent tragedy of the situation. Of course."

Moira Hooper shook her head, closed her eyes for a moment, then replied, "I'm sorry. Yes…it was all very straightforward and aboveboard. And we had no complaints about his treatment. There was…not much that could be done. He would have died, anyway. In the end."

Her face had hardened, and Sherlock could see that he would not be getting much more information from her…but something about her turn of phrase gave him pause. Before he could stew over it, she stood up.

"Was that all you needed, Mr…er…,"

"Hamish. John Hamish," he said, standing now and shrugging his coat on, "Yes, that was all…thank you, Mrs. Hooper. And thank you for the tea."

She looked up at him, and suddenly he was struck by how much she really did look like Molly. Same large brown eyes, same slight upturn at the end of her nose.

"Yes, well…thank you, Mr. Hamish."

He smiled down at her, and he could see her features soften just a fraction as she showed him to the door. He bid her good day, and walked down the cobblestone pathway to the road. As he walked back to the station to catch his train, his mind played the conversation back again.

Something was off. The apprehension that she'd displayed when he'd mentioned new information pertaining to her husband's death had been the first tip off, and then the last statement she'd made continued to bother him.

Sherlock frowned and shook his head…it didn't make sense. What did it mean? "_He would have died anyway",_ if not for…what? The man had been suffering from cancer of the pancreas, one of the worst possible cancers. By the time he'd been diagnosed, it was probably already far too advanced to do much besides make him comfortable. Perhaps prolong his life a bit. It wasn't as though there were any questionable circumstances surrounding his death.

He'd been aware of that much…easily obtainable through a search of medical records and death certificates. It hadn't been the facts of the case that he'd been seeking when he went to Molly's mother's home. Rather, he'd been attempting to gain some insight into why Thomas Hooper's death had apparently driven the rest of the family apart.

The couple of weeks he'd spent in Molly's flat, examining her things, had played and replayed in his mind, over and over again. He found himself not only thinking about the things he'd found there and how they'd changed his opinion of her, but also the many unanswered questions, large and small, that his investigation had left him to ponder.

Most perplexing of all was the question of why she and her mother did not speak anymore, and what her father's death could possibly have to do with that. He hadn't gotten the insight he'd hoped for from her mother. If anything, the meeting had only served to make him more confused. Grimacing as he stepped onto the train that was waiting to pull away from the station, he shoved his hands in his coat pockets…the leather coat she had bought for him.

Sherlock Holmes didn't wear the mantle of confusion well, and he certainly wouldn't tolerate the burden for long.

* * *

After that visit, however, Sherlock had been left feeling somewhat exposed. It was one thing to do some research online, and it was a completely different matter to actively begin to take risks like the one he'd taken in going to Moira Hooper's house. He hadn't felt it was an extreme course of action before he'd done it, but he supposed that was because he hadn't allowed himself to do much pondering on it before he'd gotten on the train towards Grimsby. He also supposed that he'd feel better about the whole undertaking if he'd managed to garner the insight he'd needed...since he hadn't, it left him feeling empty and more than a little bit foolish.

He hated that feeling with a passion, and was noticeably churlish for a few days afterward. He actually called Mycroft and asked him to arrange a place for him to stay in London because every time he looked at her, it reminded him that he was currently failing to solve this puzzle and he was starting to take it out on her.

He called him back not an hour later and cancelled the request. Mycroft had protested incredulously, asking him why the change of heart and complaining again that Sherlock was putting Molly at risk (and causing more work for Mycroft) by staying there. Sherlock ignored him...if there were any danger being brought to her through his proximity, he wouldn't be going there. In fact, he'd make sure to be as far away from her as possible.

Just the thought made him feel unsettled. He took to walking around the city when she was at work, just to pass the time until his next lead came up, knowing that London was large enough and her citizens apathetic enough for anyone to walk its streets anonymously – in particular a dead, disgraced detective.

One night he got back late, knowing Molly wouldn't be worried because she had been told not to harbor any expectations about when or if he would return. He also knew she wouldn't approve of him being in public for fear of being caught and would probably be unhappy with him when he walked in and told her he had just gone for a leisurely stroll. He just couldn't quite bring himself to care all that deeply.

Having caught someone coming out of the building's front door, he had climbed the stairs without ringing her bell and was now standing at the door to her flat. She wasn't responding to his soft knock, so he knocked again, a bit harder this time.

Still no response.

Frowning, Sherlock dug tools out of his pocket and deftly picked the lock. He'd never had to do this before – she was always there when he needed to get in, and he'd only just started venturing out at all. The flat was dark, and judging by the way the cat was now desperately throwing itself at his feet, she obviously hadn't been home from work yet. He glanced at his watch...nearly eight o'clock.

His eyes wandered about the room, which was only dimly lit by the streetlights outside and by a single little lamp she always left on in the kitchen. He considered taking out the violin and playing for a while, but decided that perhaps he should confine that particular activity to the daytime...he didn't want any of her neighbors getting curious.

His eyes were drawn almost involuntarily to her bedroom door. It would be stupid to do it now. She could be home any moment. She should be home already as it was.

Or perhaps she wasn't at work, he thought, his brow knitting. Perhaps she'd gone out.

He made a split second decision and then bounded down the stairs and out of the building before he could second-guess himself. All in all, he was getting quickly fed up with being a prisoner. All he wanted to do was deliver the last two known assassins to Mycroft and his men, finish this ridiculousness up and return to his life. Until then, this was the closest he would get to a distraction.

Therefore, the slight buzz of excitement that he felt as he slipped onto the tube headed towards Bart's was worth the slight concern that it might be a bad idea to go striding into the building he had jumped to his 'death' from not five months ago.

Once he was inside the hospital, he pulled his cap down low and, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, he hunched as he walked towards the pathology lab. Only once did someone ask him if they could help him find something, and he smiled at them, deliberately pitching his voice at a higher tone than usual as he replied,

"No, thanks! I'm here to pick up Molly Hooper, she works down in the morgue. She said I should wait just outside the lab."

This worked like magic, as usual. The nurse who'd stopped him just smiled and went about her business.

People really were morons.

Once he got to the lab, he keyed in the code that he knew by heart (and which the department heads, being morons as well, never changed) and pushed the door open, entering. Molly was there, just as he'd predicted...sitting at her usual spot, her white lab coat on and her safety goggles propped on top of her head as she scribbled furiously on a toxicology report.

The sight was so familiar, so _missed_, that it made his chest ache a bit.

She finally realized she wasn't alone and looked up, and her eyes growing as round as saucers the moment her brain wrapped around who she was looking at. Standing up so quickly she nearly knocked her stool to the floor, she rushed over to him.

"Are you _insane_!?" she hissed, her eyes locked on his face.

"I've been accused of it once or twice, though I personally think it depends on the situation," he replied sardonically, and she shook her head at his attempt at humor, her expression more furious than he'd ever seen it. Looking down his nose at her, he accused, "You weren't home."

"I'm serious, Sher..." she cut herself off and glanced around, as though afraid someone would hear her say his name, then redirected, "How did you even get in here?"

"The art of disguise is..."

"Yes, I know, you've said this before...knowing how to hide in plain sight. Brilliant," she cut him off, and he stared down at her, startled and more than mildly impressed. He'd never seen her like this before.

"Then why did you ask me?"

"I don't know, I'm at a total loss for words I suppose, so I'm grasping at straws," she glared up at him, "Look, you've got to get out of here before someone sees you and ruins the whole plan."

"No one will see me but you...or rather, no one will see me for long enough identify me."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because people don't expect to see dead men walking around, Molly. Besides, as far as I could tell from the windows, everyone else in the department has gone."

"It's not just my depart...what? The windows?"

He rolled his eyes. "I was outside and went around to check the pathology department office windows before I came in...all dark. Even _yours_ is dark. For a moment I thought you might be doing something idiotic like having dinner out."

She shook her head again and asked warily, "Eating dinner out is idiotic?"

"Being that you may, at any time, already _have_ a man sleeping for days on end at your flat, this doesn't seem to be the most convenient moment to start up a romantic relationship, does it? It would be a bit hard to explain, don't you think?"

Molly stared for a moment, then blew out a breath and scrubbed her hands across her face, her fingernails accidentally pulling tendrils of hair from her clip and leaving them to hang, bedraggled, in front of her flushed face.

"Will you please get out of here? This may be fun for you, but it's nerve-wracking for me and I hate it. I'll meet you at ho...at my place."

"Come on," he said, "We'll take a cab."

"I'm not finished with..."

"Molly, this will all be here tomorrow. Don't be stupid...you're already two hours past the end of your shift, you need to eat, and you also need to let me into your flat so I can get to my sofa."

She blinked at him. "_Your_ sofa now, is it?"

He actually felt himself in danger of coloring a bit at this, so her strode over to her lab table and changed the subject, asking, "Do you have any experiments that need to be put away or is it just paperwork? Tissue samples or chemicals...?"

"Just paperwork."

"Dull," he muttered, then turned to her and said, "Let's go. I can't stand the monotony anymore...we're going out."

"What?"

"For dinner, Molly...do at least try to keep up."

"But you just said going out to dinner was idiotic!"

He rounded on her and leaned into her face a bit as he snapped, "I _am_ the strange man on your couch, so you don't have to worry about explaining yourself, do you? You must not have eaten lunch either, because you seem to be slower than usual. What happened to wanting to get out of here as fast as possible? Let's _go_."

She didn't respond except to sigh and trudge tiredly over to the coat rack to exchange her lab coat with the tan, hooded thing she always wore for work, the fire having apparently gone out of her. He tried not to feel impatient as she slowly went ahead of him out the door he was holding open, and flicked off the lights as he followed her out.

* * *

"I can't believe we're doing this," she said, gripping her menu with white knuckles and casting her eyes furtively around the tiny restaurant.

It was the most unassuming place Sherlock could think to go – just a small Greek place, very casual, and somewhere he'd passed by a hundred times but had never had any interest in trying. Now, however, it served all of his many purposes. He could eat there without the possibility of anyone noticing him, he could spend a couple of hours doing something relatively normal for the first time in months, and...the last motive made him shift uncomfortably in his seat as he forced himself to own up to it.

It was a way to force Molly to actually interact with him for an extended period of time. He knew that if they went back to her flat, she would spend about twenty minutes at most eating with him but not looking at him, sharing stilted and extremely uneasy conversation, and then would beg off to her room, leaving him alone to his thoughts again.

He wanted to get past this bloody awkwardness. He felt compelled to work through this and somehow fix the damage he'd done over the years he'd known her.

The years he'd _thought_ he'd known her.

"Molly, if you want to appear as suspicious as possible, then by all means continue to act as though you're hiding an explosive of some kind under your seat."

"I can't help it," she shot back as she snapped her eyes almost comically to her menu, clearly not really focusing on it, "I'm nervous."

"Don't be neurotic. Decide what you're having."

She exhaled and agreed, "Okay."

There was silence as she perused the menu. He didn't follow suit, and instead simply watched her. She brought a finger up to twirl furiously in her hair and she raked her bottom lip with her teeth as she read. He couldn't stop a smile from twisting his mouth.

"Molly."

She looked up. "What?"

"I wouldn't have suggested this if it wasn't safe. You think I want to be caught?"

Sighing, she replied resignedly, "No, I know you don't. I just...you can sometimes be..."

"Reckless?"

"Stupid."

One brow shot up and he actually reared back a bit to pin her with a look. "I'm sorry?"

"No offense," she said, looking away from his intense gaze, "Practically everyone is sometimes."

He was at a loss for a moment, knowing he'd said almost these exact words to many people before, and then blew out his breath in a huff. "I really need to stop trying to finish your sentences. I'm almost invariably off when I do, and I blame you."

"Me?"

"I finish your sentences correctly, and you...don't."

"Ah," she said, a ghost of a smile playing around her mouth as she went back to the menu, "I see...sorry about that."

The waitress came over and Molly went first, ordering enough food for three people. Sherlock listened, somewhat horrified, before placing his own order and then leaned forward as the waitress walked away.

"That was excessive. I'm starting to think you're secretly a cow."

Her cheeks turned pink as she frowned at him. "Sorry? What?"

He stared at her for a moment, puzzled, then rolled his eyes as he realized his faux pas and clarified, "Your _stomach_. I'm convinced it has more than one chamber. I don't know where you think you're going to put all that."

"Oh," she said, relaxing and bringing her hand up to play with her hair again, "Leftovers for you tomorrow, I thought...oh, unless you won't be around tomorrow?"

She uttered the last statement with a twinge of panic after having ordered all that food, and he assured her, "I won't be leaving for a few days at least."

She didn't respond, merely nodded and allowed her now calmed gaze to roam around the restaurant. There were only a few other tables...another couple, a single man and two women. Sherlock could feel the omnipresent silence descending upon them again and didn't want to wait to find out whether it would be comfortable or awkward. Toying with his fork, he said,

"That couple is breaking up."

"What?" she asked, looking at him. He gestured with his eyes towards the couple in the corner and repeated,

"They're in the middle of a breakup. The woman took the initiative, but the man is on the same page. There's a necklace on the table, obviously a gift he'd given her and she's now taken it off in order to return it to him. Also, their legs are touching under the table, which points to intimacy, but they are both leaning back in their seats with their hands in their laps, which tells me they aren't actively interested in being close to each other. Also, they've had their food since we walked in – full plates. Neither one has been touched and they've just asked the waitress for takeaway containers. No appetites. Obviously in the middle of a breakup."

She squinted over at them and merely responded, "Huh."

Frowning at her profile, he straightened, flicked his fork quickly at the single man and went on, "The man sitting by himself, on the other hand, is here on business which is why he's eating dinner by himself. He's waiting for someone, possibly a colleague, and is growing annoyed at the delay. He's had his menu for awhile now but has only had two cups of tea and a glass of scotch – just the one glass, recently ordered, as he's getting tired of the tea and frustrated with waiting."

"How do you know he's here on business?" Molly asked absently, and Sherlock's lips curled into a small smile...good. Starting to contribute to the conversation.

"Obvious. He's wearing a rumpled suit, so just off the plane, and he's got his carry-on bag by his feet...so clearly only staying for a night or he would have more luggage. If he had checked into his hotel before coming, he wouldn't have any bags at all."

"Oh, I didn't even see the bag," she murmured, looking at him, "I would have figured it out otherwise."

He smirked at her and was about to go on when the waitress came back with their food...Molly's barely fit on the table, and he could see the waitress shoot her a distasteful look before she turned her attention to Sherlock.

"Do we know each other?"

Sherlock froze momentarily while putting his napkin in his lap and shot a warning glance at Molly, hoping to stop her from losing her composure. She was staring at the waitress, her mouth open.

"Doubtful...I don't live in London," he replied, tapping Molly's leg with his foot under the table. She took the hint and grabbed her napkin with a shaky hand, trying to act normal.

"I could swear I've seen you before...you didn't grow up in Leeds, did you?"

"No," he said, smiling pleasantly up at the blonde girl although he really wanted to throttle her, "Never been there, actually."

The woman still would not walk away. She stood there scrutinizing him and Sherlock was just about to get rude when suddenly Molly spoke.

"Do you watch Casualty?"

Turning her attention to Molly, the girl said, "Yeah, I used to..."

"He was once an extra on Casualty. Maybe you recognize him from that!"

The girl looked doubtful but, having been given a mediocre explanation, shrugged and walked away. Sherlock turned his eyes to Molly, who was looking at him.

"Oh, that was rather good, Molly," he said, genuinely impressed.

"Don't talk, I'm trying not to vomit."

He laughed, and they ate their dinner in relatively companionable silence, interspersed with random comments about the food or their fellow diners. Later, as they were working out the check, Sherlock was watching her count out change when suddenly he found himself blurting out,

"Why do you wear your hair like that?"

She looked up, startled, and her hand went to the tie at the back of her head. "Oh...I...it's just, when I'm at work, I don't want it to get into things..."

"No, no," he waved her off and corrected her, "I mean the way you cover up the ginger. I've seen the old photographs. Why dye it such a boring color?"

She seemed to spend a few seconds deciding whether or not she should be offended by his word choice, then apparently opted to just answer the question. "I wore it naturally through my first year in out of uni. The ginger jokes never stopped coming – I was more than used to that, but professionally, I felt I wasn't being taken seriously just because of a single obnoxious physical trait, so...I got rid of it. I don't know if it was the truth or not, but...after it was gone, I felt like people focused more on my work and not on my hair."

Her matter of fact answer was concise, but it succeeded in bringing to his mind dozens of different scenarios in which she was relegated to 'the ginger'. He understood exactly what she must have felt.

"You're established in your career now. Why bother anymore?"

She shrugged, setting the paid check on the table and standing, "Force of habit, I guess. Besides, who actually _wants_ to be a ginger?"

He said nothing, standing and following her outside. Standing at the corner a few minutes later, he stepped up behind her and hailed them a cab. Opening the door for her, he placed a hand on her back as she bundled herself in and told the driver where to go.

Once they were back at her flat, she gave him the duvet as usual and fed the cat. He walked over to put the bag of leftovers in the fridge and found himself staring down at the top of her head as she idly stroked her pet as he ate.

"You ought to stop, you know."

She looked up at him. "Sorry?"

"Your hair. Just let it grow."

"Why?"

He shrugged, reaching out and snagging a lock with his fingers, testing the texture. "Can't be good, can it? You're probably lucky it's not more damaged."

She stood up then, and he let go of her hair, his hand falling to his side. Quirking an eyebrow at him, she said, "I didn't realize you'd done a stint in beauty school."

He scowled at her and retorted, "Common sense, Molly. You don't need schooling for that. Or at least, I should hope you don't."

"Maybe one day I will. Grow my hair out, that is...not need a course in common sense."

"Obviously," he chided her, and then she huffed out a laugh and turned toward her room.

"Goodnight...thanks for dragging me out to dinner. I needed it after the day I had."

Sherlock was struck with the sudden urge to keep the conversation, and the evening, going. To ask her why her day had been difficult, when the last time was that she went out for a meal, when exactly she'd started dying her hair...anything.

But before he could arrange his thoughts into any coherent conversation starter, she was already gone and in her bedroom. Door closed, as usual. The feeling of disappointment that she left in her wake nagged at him more than he felt he could admit without seeming foolish, even to himself.

He wondered idly, as he went to his sofa, whether she had always slept with her bedroom door closed or whether that was something she did because he was there.

In reality, it was more an enticement than a barrier for him. In more ways than even he had realized.

* * *

The next morning after Molly had gone off to Bart's for the day, Sherlock put off going into her bedroom only long enough to eat some of the absurd amount of leftovers from the restaurant the night before. He wasn't even hungry, but something in him felt the need to justify her silliness. He couldn't explain it if he'd wanted to, and he didn't particularly want to.

After doing a somewhat slipshod job of cleaning up, he went straight to her bedroom door and opened it, stepping inside and shutting it behind him as though not wanting to be disturbed by even the cat. He was beset once again by the smell of Molly's perfume, and the only sounds in the room were the patter of rain on the window and the ticking of her bedside clock.

He glanced over and the corner of his mouth turned up...she was probably the only person in London whose alarm clock was _not_ digital.

He wandered somewhat aimlessly towards it, picking it up and seeing that it was rather old. Setting it down, he glanced at the book on her nightstand – Tolkien – and quietly pulled open the drawer. A packet of tissues, some hair ties. A pair of earrings. A couple of condoms way at the back.

He frowned. Sliding the drawer closed, he went to the other side of the bed, where there was another nightstand with an ornate box on top of it. He tried to open the lid, but found it was locked. Grimacing, he turned the box over and found nothing, then crouched and slid his hand underneath the corner of her mattress.

"Ah," he breathed as his fingers grazed over the key, "Quite careless, Molly. You could have done better, surely."

Grasping the key, he quickly clicked the box open and peered at the secrets that were contained inside.

Some of it didn't seem very secret...there were a couple of pictures of Molly with some elderly people. At first he thought they might be grandparents, but he noticed the photos were recent and knew categorically that Molly had no family that she was in contact with, based on all the evidence he'd collected so far. Turning one of the pictures over, he found some writing on the back.

_Molly – Thanks for making an old lady feel beautiful again! See you next month! – Esther Riordan xx_

He frowned and turned the picture back over to gaze at it again. It was Molly, standing with a lady he assumed was Esther Riordan. Molly had a pair of scissors in her hand and was pretending to chop off a chunk of Esther's hair, and Esther was laughing. The tray next to them held various hair care products...on the side of the tray in blue ink was a handwritten "Hawthorn Green Nursing Homes".

Molly apparently went to this nursing home once a month to trim and style the hair of the old ladies living there. He didn't have the faintest idea how to react to this, except to admit to himself that he was not necessarily surprised at the information. It sounded like something she would do.

There were a couple of pieces of nicer jewelry at the bottom, but the biggest thing in there was a letter. She'd had to bend the corners a bit to get it in there, because she obviously hadn't wanted to fold it over too many times. Sherlock pulled it out, carefully unfolded and began to read.

_Molly,_

_My fight is over, but I know yours may be just beginning in some ways. _

_I've never been one to take the easy way out. Then I thought that maybe it was better for everyone. I hated seeing you and your mum suffer because of me. Now we can all find peace. We were always a good team, and in the end, it felt like a proper goodbye for us. You did the right thing. You're like me, you face the tough choices and do what's right, even if it doesn't feel good._

_I'm proud of you. You're strong(more than you know) and you'll be okay. Live your life and always stand tall. That way, no one can try to stand on your shoulders to get what they want - they won't be able to reach. Your Gran told me that a long time ago. I think she made it up, but she was right._

_Save this letter for the low times so I can be a comfort to you even when these old bones are long gone. _

_Be happy. And you can bet I'll be watching..._

_Love you._

_~Dad_

Sherlock stared at the letter, the handwriting fading from view as his thoughts overwhelmed his senses. The flushed, acutely cognizant feeling that always overcame him when he finally came upon the solution to a case washed over him in sudden waves. His eyes darted back and forth without really seeing, his mind spinning as the truth clicked into place.

Molly Hooper's father had been diagnosed with terminal cancer. He'd put on a brave face for months, until the physical and mental strain became unbearable. His body finally began to succumb to the disease and he was admitted to a hospital. In the end, he died in his sleep, ostensibly due to complications of the cancer.

There had been no autopsy, no reason to question the cause of death, so no one ever knew that his death wasn't directly caused by the tumor.

Sherlock's brow creased as he got to his feet, thinking furiously, trying to wrap his brain around the details, the questions and the implications of the solution that was presenting itself to him now, taunting him with the fact that it had come to him so belatedly when it seemed so obvious. He thought back to Moira Hooper's words to him that day, how they'd struck a discordant note when he had pondered them later.

"_It was all very straightforward and aboveboard..." _

"_He would have died anyway, in the end…"_

Moira Hooper had insisted, in what had originally seemed an unnecessarily strong manner, how uncomplicated her husband's end had been when she'd thought he was officially poking into the matter.

Sherlock knew that Molly would have both the medical knowledge and the access to what she needed in order to...

...to aid her father in achieving a peaceful death.

The letter he had just read had all but proven it.

It was the only possible explanation of all of the facts.

Her mother had not been on speaking terms with her since Thomas Hooper's death. She would never forgive her daughter, but she still didn't want her exposed, which was why she had been so adamant about the supposed facts when Sherlock had gone there to question her.

Molly, having idolized her father, understood the depth of his suffering. She had gathered her courage and had offered him a peaceful end.

Had she done it herself? Most likely not...she was a pathologist, not a practicing physician. Most likely she enlisted the help of his oncologist. Had she known him personally and asked for the favor? Had it been the oncologists suggestion? Sherlock knew this practice was not exactly uncommon, illegal as it was...usually done with an 'accidental' overdose of strong morphine-based painkillers. Easy enough to hide when a terminal patient is on the drug for severe chronic pain anyway.

This still wouldn't have absolved her of blame in her mother's eyes, and it certainly didn't relieve Molly herself of the crushing guilt and sorrow that such a decision would saddle a person with, perhaps for life, even in the face of it technically being the kinder thing - perhaps even the right thing - to do.

Sherlock breathed in the sweet, rain-scented air that circulated through the room, helped along by the breeze coming through the open windows, as he sat back down on her bed.

The most absolute and inexorable part of the human experience – death – and instead of being consumed by it as she could so easily have been, Molly Hooper had time and time again established her dominance over it. She spent her days exposing the secrets of people's last moments, illuminating the truths that death attempted to deny and degrade with its cold finality. She'd gifted her proud and stoic father with a modicum of control over the last moments of his life and in doing so, had allowed him to preserve his dignity and find peace at great cost to herself.

Finally, she had stood stoically and unabashedly beside Sherlock as he faced what might have been his own death, and had once again beat the Reaper at his own game.

Sherlock sat there for a long time, the letter dangling in his fingers.

When she got home that night, lugging a bag of takeaway and some unfinished paperwork, he was in the middle of once again playing her song on her father's old violin. He wondered vaguely if she'd heard. It didn't seem like she had. He didn't really care either way.

"I got those spring rolls you said you liked last time," she said to him as she set her things down, "I did forget to ask for extra sauce, though, sorry. You can have mine."

He didn't answer her. He just stood there, staring at her as she fussed with plates and utensils.

Sherlock was the furthest thing possible from an emotional individual. Still, as he stood there watching Molly Hooper set little place settings at the coffee table for them, he found himself internally floundering.

He could only hope the struggle wasn't plainly displayed on his face.

He knew, the night she'd agreed to help him pull off this insane plan he was in the middle of carrying out, that he'd underestimated her...but it was not until that afternoon that he had truly understood how much. He'd been annoyed at how much he'd missed about her before, but now he was truly gutted at the thought of how utterly he'd failed.

Molly Hooper had beaten him. And she'd done it without seeking to do so, without a syringe and a riding crop and a gloating comment at the ready.

She'd taken his lack of loquacity as a sign that he'd rather just eat in silence, and seemed to accept that without complaint. As she distractedly sat on the couch munching her dinner, poring over her serology reports and swiping at the wasabi she'd gotten on the old t-shirt she'd changed into, Sherlock found it impossible to tear his eyes away from her.

Mycroft was right...caring wasn't an advantage.

He had to get away from there. To focus on what he needed to do.

To think.


End file.
